


Tastes Like Sin

by Krymera



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Bar Room Brawl, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Blindness, Drunk Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Good Frank Castle, Hurt Matt Murdock, Identity Reveal, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, POV Frank Castle, POV Matt Murdock, PWP, Season 2 canon-ish, Sensory Overload, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, So much angst, Touch-Starved, heightened senses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28440903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krymera/pseuds/Krymera
Summary: Matt reeks of alcohol.The stench coats Frank's tongue in a sickly way, invading his mouth like a disease, and reminding him of his own long nights where he had spent his time drinking the bottle until he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion."Jesus, Murdock," Frank says finally. His lips form a tight line. "What the hell are you doin' here?"
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

_One batch._

One shot.

_Two batch._

Two dead.

_Penny and dime._

Frank lines up the shot and pulls the trigger without as much as a blink, watching mutely as the body collapses across the street.

When all he can hear is the erratic screeching from the overlapping police sirens, and red and blue painting the buildings below, he throws the sniper rifle over his shoulder and hurriedly makes his way down the opposite fire exit. 

Another day, and one less asshole in the world.

* * *

The bar Frank ends up going to is a little one named Sinners and Saints. He always felt the name to be a little ironic if he was being honest, but they served a hell of a good whiskey and didn't ask questions when Frank walked in and looked like absolute shit.

He always liked the places that asked the fewest questions. The less they knew, the less they would bother him with the same old drill that made his head pound with irritation. 

"What happened? Who did it? Should I call the cops?" 

Out of boredom and curiosity, Frank had decided to test those limits the second time he came around. He can recall the night easily, and scoffs when he remembers the exact details of the event beforehand that had spurred him into a nasty fight with The Devil Of Hell's kitchen himself.

Despite Red's flawed view of the world, Frank wasn't opposed to his company. But it didn't take very long until Red had outstayed his welcome, judging by the way Frank remembered punching him across the face after he had tried to stop him from finishing the job then and there.

In the end, it didn't matter. Him and Red went there separate ways after beating the shit out of each other while the constant monologue of Red's code was played like a broken record in the background of Frank's mind.

"They're people, Frank." Red had spat blood, his whole body rigid and his hands clenched angrily at his side. "Not dogs that need to be put down. He wasn't the one who gave the order." 

"Really?" Frank scoffed, a ragged, breathy sound. He wildly gestured with the pistol at the man trembling safely behind Red, face scrunched up in agony as he cradled his broken arm. "Because that's exactly how I see it, Red. A bad dog may of learned from a bad owner, but the dog gets put down in the end anyways."

"Dammit Frank, just let me take him in. I'll throw him in a jail cell myself. You have my word."

He let out a dry chuckle. "Your word means shit, Red. You let the justice system handle him, he'll be out polluting the streets again within a year." With a subtle click, he thumbed the safety back and took a step forward as he raised his arm. "Now _move_ goddammit." 

Why did Red always test him?

"You know I can't do that," came Red's reply.

"I said, move, Red."

_"Frank--"_

He pulled the trigger. 

Frank always hated when Red forced his hand, or forced him to do anything for that matter. So when he watched Red jerk back violently, a part of him wondered if he really had shot him through the constant adrenaline pounding in his ears. That sudden anxiety was instantly replaced with a sense of cold accomplishment as he watched Red stumble forward, clutching his head with a yell and rocking back and forth in a shaky motion that mimicked exactly what had happened when he and Red crashed through that roof of the abandoned building, shortly followed up by Frank chaining him to the rooftop soon after.

A simple bullet, up close and right by his ear had done the trick magically. He hadn't expected it to effect him as much as it seemed to, but silently he was grateful for the extra seconds it gave him to finish the job.

It was all over as soon as Frank readjusted his aim, one shot ringing out, and a bullet put between the man's eyes. The pistol was cold and unforgiving against Frank's surprisingly warm fingers. 

Sometimes Frank wondered if Red had ever broken that code. Crossed that line, much like he had. 

Half-heartedly, he glanced over at the kneeling red suit and set his lips into a tight line. He wasn't sure how long that bullet would keep him down, but he didn't want to take his chances. He'd pissed off Red for sure, and he surely didn't want to stick around to hear Red lecture him for the fifteenth time about his morales.

He wasn't a school girl who needed to be taught manners for Christ's sake.

"I'm just doing my job, Red," he managed even as he saw those hands still clutched desperately around his head, his chest still heaving as an attempt to clear the ringing in his ears. "You stick to yours, and stay out of mine."

Matt didn't hear him. Frank didn't care.

He was long gone before Matt finally managed to stumble to his feet.

That very same night, he had decided he wanted a drink. Needed one, actually. Simply walked straight through that front door with blood caked across half his face from the earlier brawl. Not one single question, but he did get an eyeful from one of the frequent waitresses there, which he guessed was only fair since he knew the beating he had taken was probably far from ideal.

It didn't feel much different this time as he grasped the brass knob, pushed it open, and was greeted by the pungent odor of an old familiar friend.

Alcohol.

* * *

The lights above are soft and yellow against the contrast of the dark oak patterns that cover the inside. The blue LED's spelling out 'OPEN' live at the back of the bar, and flicker briefly as Frank sits at his usual spot, third on the left of the bar counter. Best seat to see exactly who's entering, and the best to take shelter if need be.

He takes a small glance at his surroundings as he waits to be served. Seems like a busy night. 

In the corner of the bar, darkly lit, are the reoccurring customers. Large, towering builds, tattoos displayed across their arms, and a knack for getting into trouble evident by the murmuring between waitresses as they pass by with their drinks.

A biker gang, Frank assumed. In fact, most of the people who frequented here had the same build as Frank. Large body builds with a lot of muscles.

He snorts quietly to himself. Maybe that's really why he's been so drawn to this place.

"Same as always, Mr. Castle?" Reya asks as she approaches Frank with a small wink, gesturing to the Smirnoff vodka bottle resting comfortably by her hand.

"Actually, I'm feelin' a bit ambitious tonight," Frank says with absolute certainty and a light smile. He licks his chapped lips, admiring the way his tongue doesn't catch on an open wound. "Give me your classic margarita, light ice, with salt on the side."

There's a small grin, and Frank strangely feels himself return it as Reya ducks below the counter and turns her back to him as she starts to pour the drink into a shaker.

Tonight is a pretty good night, he decides.

Usually, Frank is pretty patient. He doesn't usually need to occupy himself while his drink is being made, but he can feel his fingers are twitching unusually at his side and his body strangely restless as he stares at nothing in particular. 

Around him, he can sense the tension like a rubber band. He knows that when that band snaps, he better get his ass out while he still can. For once, he wants to enjoy his night.

He feels a set of eyes on him.

The irritation finally gets the best of him, and he huffs a low sigh which is shortly followed by the slow drag of his fingers through his hair to calm himself down. Get a grip Frank.

"Here," Reya says as she sets the drink in front of him, snapping his focus back to the present. "Margarita, light ice, salt. All yours, Castle."

"Thanks," Frank replies a bit gruffer than intended. He shuffles in his coat pocket until he finds what he's looking for, sliding the several bills he finds across the marble counter. "Keep the change," he mumbles as takes a small but fulfilling sip.

Reya smiles, and pockets it with one fluid sleight of hand.

The burn of alcohol against his throat is familiar and satisfying. Rarely has he enjoyed a drink out of sheer pleasure without the company of pain short behind.

It's short lived.

There's a sudden commotion within the bar, and Frank looks up just in time to see a younger man throw a wild punch that makes immediate contact. Then the yelling begins. 

He can't even have one goddamn night where he enjoys himself, can he? 

He takes another slow sip of his margarita, rolling the salt pebbles across his tongue as he swallows and watches. Not his fight, he reminds himself ruefully, even as the waitresses start to yell from behind the counter.

The younger man is dressed much nicer then most people at the bar, grey dress slacks, a matching grey suit jacket and a dark blue tie. But his appearance is something to be desired. His tie is loose, and his dark brown hair disheveled. If Frank squints, he can even see the evidence of fatigue and exhaustion in the way he moves.

He shrugs, returning to his drink even as the chaos spirals around him. Some rich kid, thinking he could take on a whole gang. He's seen it before.

Then he sees a sparkle, no, a shimmer of red light that catches Frank's eye. Oh hell no.

Anyone could've mistaken him for any rich guy around -- and Frank did -- but it's those _damn_ red tinted glasses that makes him abruptly stand up in disbelief.

Suddenly, he's standing up and making his way towards the brawl, eyes wide and breath heavy. He can't fucking believe this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices one of the larger men stand up, eyes blazing in something of cold calculated fury. His hands are clenched into fists and dammit, Frank knows he's gotta do something before Matt fucking Murdock gets his ass kicked by a biker gang.

"Okay, _enough_ ," Frank says once he reaches Matt. There's a following silence, accompanied by the shrill squeaking of the LED lights and the distant clinking of glasses in the back.

He can feel all the eyes on him now.

"What did you say, Castle?" The man's brown eyes narrowing before a wide smile plasters his face in mock glee, teeth gleaming. His gaze switches back from Matt to Frank. He's clearly itching to fight.

"I said enough," Frank repeats louder with an edge. He leans in closer, smells the obvious intoxication from the man's breath, and says, "Would you really hit a blind man?" 

Matt tilts his head, face unreadable, but Frank can see the obvious tremble in his hands.

"A blind man!" The man exclaims loudly, and shakes his head in mock disbelief even as it's clear he can see Matt's cane across the way, propped up by the counter. "At Sinners and Saints bar? My, my. This is something you don't see everyday, am I right?" The boys laughter behind him carries across the bar, the joke obvious.

Frank's patience dwindles by the second.

"We'd best be on our merry way, shouldn't we then?" He eggs them on, wraps his calloused sausage fingers around a shot glass and drinks the clear liquid in one go.

"Yeah, you should," Matt finally says and Frank wants nothing more then to punch his blind stupid face. It's shitty enough that Murdock of all people is the one starting bar fights, but it's even shittier that Frank decided to get involved.

The result of Matt's comment immediately makes the tension in the room much heavier. So it's no surprise when Frank sees the rest of the merry men shuffle forward, teeth bared in an ugly snarl that mimicks a rabid dog.

Dogs that need to be put down, he thinks wryly.

It's clear they're outnumbered, and he's not sure what help Murdock can be in this situation. He's a blind lawyer, albeit a decent one. But really, what _can_ he do? Frank should've just stayed out of this goddamn mess in the first place.

Instinctively, he can feel his hand twitch. The absence of any sort of weapon in his hand is unnerving, and makes him feel helpless even as a rush of adrenaline surges across his body like a bolt of lightning. If these goons wanted a fight, then Frank wasn't totally opposed to giving it to them.

"Alright, enough!" It's Reya.

"Frank, you and your pal finish your drink and get out. The same for you Norman," Reya's voice rings out with a sudden clarity. "We don't tolerate bar fights here unless you're going to be paying for it."

Norman scoffs, a grating sound that Frank has learned to hate. "Yeah, alright." He says with a smile at both of them, his teeth glinting dangerously in the soft glow of the yellow light. "Just one question for him," he states with a slight nod towards Matt.

Norman leans in, mouth curved upward into a deceiving smirk as he stops inches away from Matt's face. "Are you a sinner," he annunciates carefully, "or a saint?"

Matt visibly stiffens.

A slow turn, and Norman is already walking back towards the opposite corner of the bar. His other buddy flips them off before following straight after.

Behind Frank, Matt laughs. As if he could _see_ exactly what had just happened.

It doesn't matter though.

Frank is already yanking Matt by his arm and hauling him away towards his seat, shoving his back against the counter and holding him there with one hand wrapped tightly around his already loose tie.

Matt reeks of alcohol.

The stench coats Frank's tongue in a sickly way, invading his mouth like a disease, and reminding him of his own long nights where he had spent his time drinking the bottle until he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. 

_"Jesus,_ Murdock," Frank says finally. His lips form a tight line. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate the support as this work moves forward. I suspect that there will only be one more chapter, but we'll see as I draft the long awaited bit! ;)
> 
> All this has been edited by me as I do not currently have an editor. My apologies if there are any mistakes, but if there is, feel free to tell me so I can fix it up.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt had been to plenty of bars before. So when he had stumbled across a more remote bar out of town where the chances of being recognized were slim, he took the opportunity whole-heartedly.

He downs another shot, grimacing against the burning sensation leftover but still wanting more. His mouth feels like sand has been emptied into it and down the back of his throat. The edges of his mouth are dry and cracked, and _God_ , his head is spinning.

Everytime he tries to focus on his surroundings, he's met with a hazy mind, clouded with the potency of the shimmering gold whiskey in his hand. Maybe it was better this way, he thinks dryly as his fingers dance across the smooth rim of the glass.

Sometimes it felt nice to take the edge off, to let go. And it was even better when Foggy or Karen tagged along. 

Back when both of them were oblivious to Matt's side activities as Daredevil, he actually visited Josie's bar quite often with the two of them. It was nice to catch up with friendly talk, and to be around the people he considered close.

It was no surprise that those night outs came to an end rather quickly as soon as they knew.

The taste of the whiskey suddenly turns bitterly sour in his mouth.

Tonight had been a rough one.

Fisk had the upper hand again. He had played Matt like a damn fiddle, used him to simply push his plan into motion. He had accounted for every move Matt could have made. Countered and catered for every single outcome. That, in itself, infuriated Matt to no end.

"Checkmate, Mr. Murdock," Fisk had said with a tight lipped smile.

And for once, Matt did not have the words to respond.

God, he hated how foolish he'd been. How much he was willing to play right into Fisk's hand, and the worst part, he was alone.

Loneliness was not a foreign concept to Matt. In fact, distantly, he felt like it was painfully familiar. He knew it was partly his fault anyhow, sneaking around and lying to his friends. Still, it didn't make anything easier even as he swallows down the rest of his drink.

So when Frank Castle had walked through those doors, Matt felt an unusual wave of comfort and familiarity wash over him like a tidal wave.

He let Frank enjoy his drink — it was only courteous — before he threw the first punch at the nearest guy beside him.

* * *

Matt can tell Frank is pissed. It's obvious in the way he's handling Matt, throwing his back against the counter with unnecessary force and grappling his tie with a sharp yank that sets him on the very edge of the seat.

He knows Frank can smell the sharp tang of blatant intoxication on his clothes and breath. Even without heightened senses, it's clear Matt wasn't thinking clearly.

"I'm not kiddin' around Murdock," Frank says as he grits his teeth and presses his body against Matt's, effectively pinning him against the counter. "Why the hell are you here?"

God, he can smell everything on Frank. It's so distracting. He smells the faint burn of gun powder, the mix of sweat that runs along his hairline. Classic margarita, light ice with salt is on his breath. He laughs breathlessly even as Frank shakes him firmly to get his attention.

Matt can sense his increasing impatience, so he knows it's foolish when he cracks a small smile and asks, "would you really hit a blind man?" 

"Murdock," Frank says dangerously, and Matt can almost see the force it's taking for Frank to be patient with him. "I was havin' a good night before you brought me into this _goddamn_ mess." There's a short pause, followed up by Frank yanking on Matt's tie again. "You better start giving me answers." 

There's a sudden pounding in his head, and dully, Matt is aware of the extreme hangover he's going to feel in the morning. Nausea accompanies shortly after, and suddenly his mouth opens and he's talking. "Felt like I needed something.. to take the edge off," he slurs. 

"Doesn't explain why you're here in this bar," Frank counters coolly. "Really, out of all the bars in Hell's Kitchen, you choose the remote one? C'mon, Murdock," he scoffs in disbelief at Matt's attempt.

"Well I didn't expect you to be here," Matt snaps back with fire and immediately regrets it as Frank's grip on his tie loosens in surprise. He looks away from Frank's gaze and swallows.

"I didn't-- tonight just.. I wanted to feel alone," he finally manages.

"You wanted to feel alone?" Frank says slowly, as if he didn't hear him the first time.

Matt is silent, and suddenly very aware of the state he's in.

"Jesus, Murdock," Frank repeats again and steps away. His grip on his tie is gone, and Matt can feel the retreating warmth almost immediately as he backs away. 

It's very apparent that Matt looks like absolute shit.

"Just go, 'm fine..." Matt replies, reaching up to fumble with straighting his tie with trembling fingers. He can feel Frank's eyes on him, observing him carefully.

Suddenly, there's a hand up by his neck. He can feel the hairs on his skin stand up abruptly, can feel the rush of air as Frank inhales sharply. Fingers close around his collar gently, brushing against his neck as he takes Matt's tie in his hand and straightens it himself.

In his drunken state, Matt feels himself push against those fingers. He wants to feel them drag across his neck, wants to feel something. Anything.

The fingers dip below his shirt collar briefly, and the contrast of cold fingers and Matt's burning hot skin feels like heaven. He shudders violently, and reaches out to clasp Frank's wrist, pressing it flat against his chest. Don't stop, he thinks idly.

Frank's heartbeat increases just a fraction.

A small blush rises to Matt's cheeks as he realizes how vulnerable he is. God, he's such a mess. What is he even doing?

"We need to get you home," Frank interupts and pulls away with a jerk, breaking Matt's weak grip. He can swear it sounds almost sad and distant. "Let's go, I'll order you a cab."

Stubbornly, Matt sets his jaw even as the smell of alcohol is overwhelming. "I don't need your help, Frank."

There's a snort, but Matt can already hear the rustle of fabric as Frank pulls out his phone to order a cab.

"Whatever you say, Murdock," Frank says flatly with a roll of his eyes.

* * *

What the hell was Frank doing?

Well, Frank had no goddamn clue.

When Matt had so willingly pushed up against Frank's fingers, well, damn that sure made everything crystal clear and a whole lot more complicated then Frank had originally thought. 

Matt Murdock wasn't bad looking at all. In fact, Frank decided, he was rather pleasing to look at. His light stubble, dark oaky brown eyes carefully covered by his red glasses, right down to his perfect full lips. It seemed like he had it all. 

So when Frank had jerked back --more in surprise then anything-- he immediately regretted it.

Well, the least he could do was help the stubborn bastard home.

A simple button here and there, and Frank had ordered a cab to swing by to pick Murdock up. It said it would take approximately fifteen minutes for the cab to arrive.

Well shit. What were they supposed to do in the meantime?

"Let me guess," Matt drawls leisurely, as if reading Frank's mind. "The cab won't be here for a bit." 

"About fifteen minutes, give or take," Frank grumbles to which Matt laughs. "Hey, I could've left your sorry ass behind and avoided this whole mess," Frank adds for good measure.

Matt nods slowly, clearly trying to comprehend the events that had occured despite his foggy mind. "So why didn't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why didn't you leave my sorry ass behind?" Matt restates, curious. He's got that infuriating head tilt again, as if he's studying Frank despite not being able to see. The red tinted glasses gleam dangerously under the golden shallow light above them.

"Because," Frank starts. "I'm not a bad guy Re--" he stops. The line feels so familiar on his tongue. _I'm a not bad guy Red._ But this isn't Red, and Frank knows damn better then to open that can of worms for Murdock. "Matt," he finishes instead.

That definitely causes Matt to snap back to the present. Frank can see the concentration that it's taking him to focus on their conversation despite the constant buzzing he's probably hearing in his ears. 

He's studying Frank again like he's a damn puzzle that needs to be solved, and that irritates him.

Finally, Matt moves to stand and reaches idly for his cane nearby. "Walk me out?"

"Sure," Frank hears himself reply. "I was getting tired of watching you drunkenly stumble around this place anyways."

Matt simply smiles.

Damn him.

As they're turning to go, Frank looks around the bar hesitantly. He fishes for the extra cash he keeps in his wallet, and slaps it on the counter next to his unfinished drink.

"For you," Frank says in his usual gruff voice as he sees Reya walk over with a small frown. "For the trouble we've caused tonight."

Then Frank is gone. 

He's helping Matt out the door with one arm and into the cold depths of the freezing night. 

They stand a couple of feet outside the bar, and Frank cautiously steals a glance at Matt. The soft glow of the bar lights from the windows contrast heavily with the dark blanket of black across the sky, casting long shadows in front of them.

"So," Frank huffs, nearly splutters, breaking the silence as Matt raises an eyebrow. "Rough night?" He tries.

"You could say that," Matt says calmly, ducking his head in embarrassment. "I got carried away in there," he admits quietly.

"Everyone has rough nights," Frank states and then immediately wants to slap himself at how it's perceived. "I'm not invalidating your rough nights, I just understand where you're coming fro--"

Matt laughs softly and cuts him off. "I know, Frank."

Frank scowls.

"So the last time I saw you, it was--" Matt pauses strangely, and his eyebrows knit together. "In court, when I was your lawyer," he recalls.

"Yup. Life's good, if that's what you're asking," Frank replies evenly. "So you can imagine my surprise when my lawyer started throwing punches at random people in a bar."

"I was _drunk_ ," Matt huffs as his mouth forms a thin line. "I never usually drink that much, ever."

"Rough nights are rough nights," Frank says with a small shrug, ignoring the slight twinge in his chest. "Not your fault, Murdock."

Matt snorts, reaching around to rub his neck nervously. The smell of alcohol is slowly fading, but he can still taste the burn in the back of his throat. "I'm going to feel this in the morning," he states dryly.

"Yeah you will," Frank says bluntly with a low chuckle. 

The awkward silence following is deafening, even for Matt.

Frank tries to focus on the quiet humming of the wind around them. His fitted black jacket has kept most of elements out bay, but he can't help but notice that Matt's hands are white and clenched tightly around his cane, while his face is annoyingly unreadable and blank.

"You're staring," Matt muses gently. Okay, what the hell?

"Murdock," Frank starts curiously, then rephrases. "Matt," he says and watches Matt's attention snap to him, pursing his lips together into a firm line. "What happened when I pushed you against the bar counter, I was--"

"It was a mistake," Matt interupts. "I didn't mean for it to happen that way. I was drunk, and it all happened so fast," he blurts and sounds so damn sure that who is Frank to question it? 

A mistake, Frank reminds himself. He ignores the way he swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Okay," he says with a cold shrug. "It's in the past, Murdock."

Clearly, Matt sees right through him and he reaches to grasp Frank's arm. "Frank, wait-- I--"

 _Buzz_.

Matt retracts his hand. Frank pretends not to notice.

He looks down at his phone, huffing out a heavy sigh. "Goddamn cab driver can't even do their job right," he growls. "He's parked up a couple blocks from here. Can you make it?"

Matt nods mutely.

"Alright, c'mon."

Frank's already several steps ahead of Matt, his gait so noticeably like the Punisher that it makes Frank all the more pissed off then he already is. So what if Murdock had said it was a mistake? He was drunk, that was obvious. Mistakes like that happen, he reminds himself as he continues to tread on, leaving Matt in the dust behind him.

In the back of his mind, he thinks about just leaving Matt here and calling another cab. Was it really worth all this trouble just to get him home? He clearly didn't want Frank's help anyways.

But then there's a yank on Frank's sleeve, and instinctively he lashes out to grab the person's wrist.

It's Matt, cheeks rosey red from the coldness of the night. His lips are parted, a bead of sweat rolling its way down the side of his face. 

Frank follows the droplet, watching as it silently falls to the ground and disappears against the pavement.

" _Don't._ " Matt breaths, his grip on Frank's sleeve tightening. 

Don't what? Frank thinks, but then Matt is suddenly filling the distance between them, pressing his lips against his. It's a peckish kiss, but he can feel Matt radiating heat, breath heavy and hot against Frank's mouth. 

It's the passion behind the kiss that makes Frank heart lurch.

"Don't leave me alone." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is here!! Happy new year to you all. Here's a gift from me to you in honor of 2021! Worked on this bad boy all last night while waiting for 12:00 to hit.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed. I have also decided that the next chapter will most likely be the last so thank you to all who have been watching this work update along the way.


End file.
